behind.'
With that, the pressure on his cheek abruptly disappeared, and he could sense the man rising from the bedside. Francis continued to hold his breath, and then began counting. Slowly, one through ten, before opening his eyes.
It took another few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark, but when they did, he lifted his head and turned toward the dormitory door. For a second, the Angel was outlined, glowing, almost luminescent. He was turned, looking at Francis, but Francis was unable to make out any of his features except for a pair of eyes that seemed to burn into him and a glistening white aura that surrounded him like some otherworldly light. Then the vision disappeared, the door thumping shut with a muffled bump, and followed by the unmistakable noise of the lock being turned, which, to Francis, seemed like a lock being shut on all hope and possibility. He shuddered, his entire body quivering uncontrollably as if chilled by a plunge into icy waters and the onset of hypothermia. He remained in his bed, plunging through a darkness of terror and anxiety that had rooted within him, and which seemed to spread unchecked like infection throughout his body, wondering whether he would be able to move when morning light filled the room. His own voices remained quiet, as if they, too, were afraid that Francis suddenly teetered on the edge of some immense cliff of fear, and that should he slip and fall, he would never be able to climb out.
Francis lay still, not sleeping, not moving, throughout the night.
His breathing came in short, shallow spasms. He could feel his fingers twitching.
He did nothing except listen to the sounds around him and the pounding in his own chest. When morning arrived, he suddenly wasn't certain that he could force his limbs to move, wasn't even sure that he could make his eyes wander from the locked position they were in, staring out up into the dormitory ceiling, but seeing only the fear that had visited his bedside. He could feel emotions tripping around within his head, haphazardly slamming into side-walls, skidding, sliding, racing, runaway, out of control. He no longer was sure that he had the ability to rein them in and gain any grip whatsoever, and, for an instant, he thought in actuality he might have died that night, that the Angel had really cut his throat like he had Short Blond's and that everything he thought and heard and saw now was only a dream, and was some reverie that penetrated the final seconds of his life, that really the world around him was utterly dark, night remained closing in on him, and that his own blood was seeping out steadily, with every heartbeat.
'All right, folks,' he heard from the doorway. 'Time to rise and shine. Breakfast is waiting.' It was Big Black, greeting the dormitory residents in customary fashion.
Around him, people started to groan their ways out of sleep, leaving behind all the troubled dreams and near-nightmares that plagued them, unaware that a real, breathing nightmare had been in their midst.
Francis remained rigid, as if glued to his bunk. His limbs refused commands.
A few men stared down at him, as they stumbled past.
He heard Napoleon say, 'Come on, Francis, let's go to breakfast…' but the round man's voice trailed into nothing as he must have seen the look on Francis's face. 'Francis?' he heard, but he did not reply. 'C-Bird, are you okay?'
Again, he warred within himself. Inside, his voices had started up. They pleaded, they cajoled, they insisted, over and over, Get up, Francis! Come on, Francis! Rise up! Put your feet on the floor and wake up! Please, Francis, please get up!
He did not know whether he had the strength. He did not know whether he would ever have the strength again.
'C-Bird? What's wrong?' He heard Napoleon's voice grow worried, nearly plaintive.
He did not reply, but continued to stare up at the ceiling, all the time believing more and more firmly that he was dying. Or perhaps he was already dead, and every word he heard was just the last reverberations of life, accompanying his last few heartbeats.
'Mister Moses! Come here! We need help!' Napoleon seemed suddenly on the verge of tears.
Francis could feel himself spiraling in two opposing directions. One that seemed to thrust him down, one that insisted he soar upward. They battled within him.
Big Black pushed to his side. Francis could hear him ordering the remaining members of Amherst out into the corridor. He bent over Francis's form, looking deep into the younger man's eyes, muttering rapid-fire obscenities. 'Come on, Goddamn it, Francis, get up? What's wrong?'
'Help him,' Napoleon pleaded.
'I'm trying,' Big Black answered. 'Francis, tell me, what's wrong?' He clapped his hands sharply in front of Francis's face, trying to get a reaction. He grasped Francis by the shoulder and shook him hard, but Francis remained stiff on the bunk.
Francis thought that he no longer had any words. He doubted his ability to speak. Things inside him were glazing over, like ice forming on a pond.
The garbled voices redoubled commands, pleading, urging him to respond.
The only thought that penetrated Francis's fear was the single idea that if he didn't move, he would surely become dead. That the nightmare would become true. It was as if the two had blended together. Just as day and night were no longer different, neither was dream and wakefulness. He teetered again, on the edge of consciousness, a part of him urging him to shut it all down, retreat, find safety in the refusal to live, another part pleading with him to step away from the siren's song of the blank, dead world that suddenly beckoned him.
Don't die, Francis!
At first, he thought this was one of his familiar voices speaking to him. Then, in that perilous second, he realized that it was himself.
And so, mustering every minute amount of strength that he had, Francis croaked out words that one second earlier he'd feared were lost to him forever. 'He was here…,' Francis said, like a dying man's last breath, only contradictorily, the mere sound of his voice seemed to energize him.
'Who?' Big Black asked.
'The Angel. He spoke to me.'
The attendant seemed to rock back, then forward.
'Did he hurt you?'
'No. Yes. I can't be sure,' Francis said. Every word seemed to strengthen him. He felt like a man whose fever suddenly broke.
'Can you stand up?' Big Black said.
'I'll try,' Francis replied. With Big Black steadying him, and Napoleon holding out his hands as if he would break any fall, Francis lifted himself up, and pivoted his feet out of bed. He was dizzy for a second as blood rushed out of his head. Then he stood.
'That's good,' Big Black whispered. 'You must have gotten some kinda scare.'
Francis didn't respond. This was obvious.
'You gonna be okay, C-Bird?'
'I hope so.'
'Let's keep all this to ourselves, okay? Talk to Miss Jones and Peter, when he gets out of isolation.'
Francis nodded. Still shaky. He realized that the huge black attendant understood just how close he had come to not being able to get out of that bed ever again. Or falling into one of the blank holes occupied by the catatonic patients, who looked out on a world that existed only for themselves. He took an unsteady step forward, then another, and he felt blood flowing throughout his body and the risks of a greater madness than the one he already owned falling away from him. He could feel his muscles and his heart, all working. His voices cheered, then quieted, as if taking satisfaction in his every movement. He breathed out slowly, like a man who has just avoided being struck by a piece of falling rock. Then he smiled, regaining some of his familiar grin.
'Okay,' Francis said to Napoleon, still holding Big Black's massive forearm to steady himself. 'I think I could use something to eat.'
